


Bad Romance

by WennyT



Series: Writing Challenges for Yunho x Changmin [1]
Category: DBSK|Tohoshinki|TVXQ
Genre: Angst, Challenge fic, Established Relationship, Lady Gaga Throwdown Fic Challenge, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:12:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WennyT/pseuds/WennyT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't want to be friends, I don't want to be friends. Changmin and Yunho had a bad romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Romance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round One of the Lady Gaga Throwdown Fic Challenge between sohii, whatkindoftea and I for the song-prompt "Bad Romance".  
> Shim is dressed as [such](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/xuewentoh/42287424/5486/5486_original.png) and [this](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/xuewentoh/42287424/5883/5883_original.png) is what Jung bundles himself in.

* * *

 

  
_J'ai ton amour!_   
_I don't wanna be friends,_   
_No, I don't wanna be friends,_   
_Oh, caught in a bad romance._   


 

* * *

  
“Why do we keep doing this,” Yunho whispers, fingers tight about the iron railing. Standing next to him, Changmin purses his lips and does not reply. He is wrapped up in a tan, woollen greatcoat that Yunho has not seen on him before, and he looks so stunning that Yunho cannot help himself but steal glances, throwing furtive looks at Changmin’s jaw, the line of buttons marching down his chest, the brushed back hair, the gloved hands.

Covetousness, the ashen remains of love, burns dull in the pit of Yunho’s stomach. 

The silence stretches out, brooding and pregnant with too many things unsaid. The morning air swirls about Yunho, whorls of cold air sneaking past the layers and layers of clothes he has bundled himself in to stroke over the back of his neck. The underside of his wrist. The side of his waist. A pale reminder of how Changmin used to touch him.

“I don’t know,” Changmin utters after a long while. He is still as a statue, elbows on the railing with body leaning against it, hands tucked beneath elbows, legs crossed at the ankle. His gaze is firmly fixed on the ships anchored just off the harbour, has been this way since Yunho turned up at precisely half past six as per his request. Somehow Yunho does not think Changmin wants to meet to gaze at freighters.

 _I don’t know_ is something that has been something they have been saying to each other with increasing frequency these past few months, and Yunho is starting to think that those three words are sufficient to sum up their entire relationship. He heaves a sigh, air puffing out in a silvery cloud before him, only to dissipate into nothingness seconds later. “I don’t, either.”

They settle into the quiet once more. Vaguely, Yunho hears the sounds of the city stirring to wakefulness about them; the thud-thud-thud of track shoes worn by joggers running past behind them, the call of one peddler to another while setting up their mobile stores, the faint honk of cars gearing up for the morning rush hour in the main road just beyond.

Ears numb from the nip in the air, Yunho huddles deeper into his slightly too-worn pea coat. It was a gift from Changmin during their fifth-year anniversary. That year had been good to the both of them, and he remembers how Changmin had rang his boss and lied about having caught the flu, just to be able celebrate their anniversary together with him.

They had spent the day huddled beneath the covers, talking and cuddling, snug and protected from the cold, with the duvet wound tight around the two of them. In the evening, Changmin had gotten up reluctantly when the growling from both of their stomachs could not longer be ignored, and fixed them both dinner in the form of spaghetti carbonara. Yunho had gorged on it; there were not many days when Changmin could pull himself away from his work long enough to actually make food for Yunho, and the last time Yunho remember Changmin cooking for him was too many months ago.

Changmin had laughed at him across their dining table and called him a pig, but Yunho was not paying much attention because he had looked up from his spaghetti to a garment box making a sudden appearance on the table, and with a smiling Changmin draped over it, too. Then Changmin had opened the box and held up the pea coat and he had looked so happy at Yunho’s surprise, as though _he_ was the one at the receiving end of the gift that they ended up abandoning dinner halfway through to make for the bedroom instead.

“I’m sorry for being an arse.” Changmin’s voice pulls Yunho back into the present. Yunho sighs, following the movement of the white-tipped waves breaking through the monotony of the grey sea with his eyes. Words collect at the tip of his tongue, crowding against each other, and he takes one breath, and another, and another. “No, you’re not.”

“But I am,” the other presses on, and Yunho turns his head to find Changmin finally looking straight on at him. He reads guilt and remorse and a thousand other fucking emotions, but love is not among them, and that enrages him. It lights a fire within him, a fire not unlike the chill of the air, and the freezing burn of it claws at his insides and makes his eyes water. He blinks the moisture back. “Your actions say otherwise.”

“… I know.” Changmin concedes softly, lips pressed together again and bracketed by lines of tension. His gaze is so fixed on Yunho that it is obvious he is forcing himself to not look away, and it is _so_ Changmin to make himself continue on with things he does not really want, to make himself perform actions and say words out of a misguided notion of duty, that Yunho feels his fury sputter out. Or perhaps he was never angry in the first place.

He does not know anymore.

A black-gloved hand rises, hovering, and Yunho stares at it, and directs his gaze back up to Changmin’s face. The other man flinches, a minute jerk backwards at Yunho’s expression, but he speaks anyway, voice only faltering slightly. “Can we… I mean, friends then?”

“I apologise,” Yunho’s voice is gentle, and he wonders for a moment; just who was the victim in their relationship? A foghorn blares in the distance; and he decides not to care anymore. Yunho does not know and he does not want to know. He only knows that he is tired. “But I don’t want to be friends.”

Changmin swallows audibly, the bob of his Adam’s apple visible, framed by lapels trimmed with cashmere. His hand hovers in the air for a moment longer, and then falls back by his side, fingers still half-curled. They do nothing except gaze at each other for a little while, and Yunho allows himself to look his fill, to trace the contours of the face more familiar and dear to him than his own for one last time. Changmin tucks both of his hand back into the pockets of his greatcoat, eyes on the ground. “I loved you.”

“Maybe you did,” Yunho replies, already turning away. Willing himself to move, he hunches lower into his pea-coat. He can barely feel his hands and feet from standing out in the cold for so long. If he hurries, he can still grab a cinnamon bun and a warm mug of lemon garden tea at thei- no, at _his_ favourite café and head to work. Food will chase away the weariness that seems to have settled deep into his bones. “But it’s over now, isn’t it? We’re over now.”

“Goodbye, then.” He walks away without a look over his shoulder, leaving with steady strides even as he feels the prickle of Changmin’s eyes upon his back.

 

* * *

 

_You and me, could write a bad romance._

 

* * *

 


End file.
